


I couldn't stop because there would be nothing left after I stopped.

by barthelme



Series: Mors Certa, Vita Incerta [3]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Androids, M/M, are we human are are we android
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-06-15 23:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15424062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/pseuds/barthelme
Summary: I started writing a bit from Timmy 2.0's perspective. Not sure I'll keep going, but I liked this part well enough.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing a bit from Timmy 2.0's perspective. Not sure I'll keep going, but I liked this part well enough.

Timmy smells Febreze. Fresh Cut Pine. Must be a man; women never buy Febreze that smells like pine. They buy Febreze that smells clean, not like the forest floor. 

He opens his eyes even though his vision won't become clear for a few minutes. Cracks his neck, stretches his fingers. They crack before rubbing against the against the fabric. It's not the most comfortable fabric and he's sure it's a hand me down. Maybe it came with the place. 

He waits. It's best not to move when he first wakes up. He learned that the hard way last time, so he spreads his legs. Waits. Blinks. Listens. It's quiet except the hum of a refrigerator. When his eyes adjust, he realizes it's dark in the room, the only light coming from streetlamps and the moon. He starts to get full feeling in his toes, the backs of his thighs, his hole. Feels a dampness. Still, he waits. There could be more coming and he doesn't want to start off on the wrong foot. Not like last time. 

It isn't until he hears the distant creak of a bed then silence--no footsteps--that he straightens himself. Looks around. Mismatched furniture, small kitchen, older TV. He hopes it has Netflix. There's a throw blanket draped over an armchair and he wants to wrap up in it. Doesn't. Most of the light is coming from a sliding door, which he tiptoes over to. He looks around; a cracked door it just outside the kitchen. A wide open one through the kitchen. Carefully, so carefully, he pushes on the sliding door and it quietly opens. The air is warm and feels nice on his bare skin. 

The balcony is nice. He likes it. Looks out over a small city block with a coffee shop on the corner. More apartments above the stores. It doesn't look as posh as his last home, but it is late and no one is on the street. A good sign. 

Back inside, he walks to the cracked door and peers in. A man is sleeping, face down, sheet barely covering his lower half. His feet hang off the bed and they look huge. Timmy curls his own feet against the wood floor, reaches behind himself and presses his thumb against his opening. 

_____

He sprawls on the living room rug and watches the room get brighter and brighter. The sun is level with the window when he watches the man stumble out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and into the bathroom. Slams the door. He's wearing briefs, cell phone tucked into the waistband. Timmy can't help himself. He'd stopped last night because he didn't have permission, but the man looked...

The man looked?

The man looked not like anyone before and he had trusted him to be awake in the new place by himself. Trusted him to not leave, so maybe he was nice. 

He can't help himself as he kneels and presses his thumb against himself again. The toilet flushes, bathroom door opens. The man is tall; his head inches from the door frame. He doesn't look towards Timmy. Turns on the kitchen light and starts rummaging around in the refrigerator, cabinets. 

He watches the man make breakfast. Scratch his chest. Yawn. Scratch his ass. Stretch. He can't believe all of that was inside him. Wishes he'd been awake for it. He replaces his thumb with two fingers.

He holds it together until the giant man starts eating. It's everything. How he leans against the counter even though there are stools and a breakfast nook he could sit in. How he casually checks his phone. Frowns and tosses the phone on the counter. Dips his toast in ketchup. 

Timmy presses three fingers in. 

He must be making too much noise, because the giant looks up at him, asks, "What are you doing?"

Timmy pulls his fingers out. Presses them past his lips. 

"Jesus, don't do that," the man says and his plate slips from his fingers. Timmy smirks as the man rushes across the room to pull his fingers from his mouth. "That's. Just." Timmy wants to do it again. "Don't."

"Can you fuck me again, Sir?"

“Don’t say that,” Armie says.

“Daddy? Master? What do you want?”

Timmy hopes he says, "Sir."

“Armie. Call me Armie.”

_____

Armie gives him clothes to wear and tells him to get dressed. "I have to shower." They must be Armie's clothes because they definitely don't look like they will fit. The sweatpants are soft and the shirt smells like a forest. He holds the shirt to his mouth and breathes it in. If he ever went shopping, he might buy Fresh Cut Pine Febreze, maybe. 

Again, he's in a room alone. He's never been left alone in a room without being confined, locked, turned off. But here he is. The bedroom door is open (the bathroom door is open, too, and he keeps peaking through the kitchen space, trying to see Armie.) He knows he could get to the front door without causing a scene; Armie takes long showers, it turns out. He wonders how far away he could get. Not far, he knows, but he might make it to the coffee shop. What would he do when he gets there?

"Probably walk back here," he whispers to himself. He knows he'd walk back here. He's programmed to walk back here. 

He drops the shirt and falls back onto the bed. He can't help himself now, either. He's programmed for this, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not so sure about this part, but it has given me ideas for future parts, so it's not all a loss.

Armie leaves Timmy alone in the living room. Again. 

The first hour is fine. Timmy cleans the shower. Searches the couch cushions for quarters and starts a load of laundry. Sweeps the balcony; leans over the railing to watch people. He grins when he sees a couple walking hand in hand. That was him and Armie last night. He gets lost thinking about what lead up to the walk. Riding Armie, being allowed to come. No, being allowed to come slowly, not having an orgasm fucked out of him. Not coming when he was programmed to do so, but when he couldn't hold onto it anymore. 

He smiles and walks back into the apartment. Stores the broom back in the closet by the front door. He walks barefoot down to the laundry room, taking two steps at a time and holding the laundry basket against his hip with one hand, the waist of Armie's sweatpants with his other so they don't slip down his hips. The laundry room is small and he has to scoot sideways by an older woman to get to his washer. Whistles while he pulls the wet clothes into the basket. 

"You're new?" The woman asks. She's folding nightgowns. 

Timmy stands up straight. Smiles. "Hi, I'm Timmy T-" he almost goes into commercial mode. ( _You are not Timmy 2.0,_ he says to himself. _You are just Timmy._ ) "I'm Timmy. I live with Armie."

The woman's face scrunches. "Armie?" 

"Armie. This tall," he gestures above his head with his hand, "darker blonde hair, nice smile. Likes mayo on his sandwiches."

The woman pushes her clothes into her hamper, most of it unfolded. "Okay." 

She leaves and Timmy watches her go. 

The rest of the day is long as he reworks the conversation he had with nightgown woman. He folds the laundry and tries to put it away. Armie doesn't have a system. He takes out all of Armie's clothes, sorts them into piles and refolds them. Makes him an underwear drawer, t-shirt drawer, jeans, drawer, etc. Irons his work clothes. That only takes another hour. 

He wants to go back to the laundry room to try and talk to someone else. Reminds himself that it's the first week; conversation will come back. 

They'd watched the morning news before Armie had to leave and it's still on. Timmy sits down and starts flipping through channels until something makes him laugh.

After the third commercial break, he says, "I'm Timmy. I live with Armie in 317. Tall guy; you can't miss him."  
_____

By week two, there is a pattern. Timmy can handle being awake all the time if there is a pattern. They wake up, put their mouths on one another (Timmy isn't used to having a gentle mouth on his body. It tickles a lot, but he learns to not squirm away. But, sometimes, he gets extra squirmy so Armie will force him to stay still. Hold down his hips, shoulders. Grip his ankle, rough, lick a stripe down the arch of his foot), and then Armie goes to work. Timmy cleans. Watches TV. Reads magazines (it takes him two days to learn to read, and then he can't stop.) 

Timmy is not entirely sure what this feeling is, but he knows it will come to him soon.  
_____

Armie isn't waking up. 

Timmy sighs. Picks up one of the books from the bedstand. Reads a page. Turns it quickly with a slap. Peaks at Armie, who hasn't stirred. He's not used to this restlessness. This wakefulness without usefullness. He fingers the button behind his ear. 

(He tried to press it once, the last time. He was on his stomach and, as far as he could tell, the fourth cock of the night and he just needed to rest. Wanted to shut down. He pressed it and the shock sent through his body made his hips buck, eyes clench. A hand slapped his hip, called out, "The slut loves this." 

After, naked and cross-legged in the corner, he tried again. The men were cleaning themselves off, dressing. Chatting about business. He quickly pressed the button, bracing himself. Another shock. Of course.)

Pulls his fingers back. This time he wants to shut down to speed things up, not make them stop. 

Timmy drops (well, throws) the book to the ground. Grins when Armie sits straight up, covers falling to his waist. 

"Finally." Timmy yanks the sheets over his head. Mouths his way to Armie's cock. 

"Timmy," Armie warns, halfheartedly trying to push Timmy away. Too late. Timmy's fingers grip his thighs, mouth sinks down. Breathes in deep, exhales with a groan. "Seriously," Armie tries to sound stern, but his hand rub Timmy's shoulder over the sheet. "I have to go shopping."

Timmy pulls off. Mocks, "I have to go shopping."

_____

When Armie stops fucking him, Timmy starts asking questions. One thing he remembers is to never ask the question you want answered. 

But, the random questions seem to annoy Armie, who eventually pulls out his laptop and sets it on Timmy's lap. Teaches him how to use Google and kisses his forehead before going to work. 

Timmy pushes the laptop aside. Stands up. Looks around. "I don't need a computer," he whispers. "I basically am a--" He stops himself. Looks around again.

He frowns when he notices how big the apartment is. Yes, smaller than the one before, but there isn't a lot of stuff. There are necessities, but no random artwork, no statues in the corner. No chairs that aren't meant to be sat in. 

He goes back to the balcony, which is empty. Sits cross-legged above their block and watches people go in and out of the coffee shop. There are people sitting outside, talking and drinking coffee. It looks like the background of a movie, where extras talk but don't say anything. But they are talking, he realizes. Having conversations. 

Thinks, _Do Armie and I have conversations?_ They talk. Timmy asks questions, states obvious facts like "The sun is really bright," and Armie will smile at him. Agree. Buy him sunglasses.

They talk about sex a lot. Or, Timmy talks about sex a lot. Armie usually responds. Sometimes he ignores him. Before, Timmy remembers, it was the opposite. Before, Timmy stayed silent and nodded. He usually ignored the man because it was better not to know what would happen. Surprises were awful, but terrified anticipation was worse. Surprises with Armie are good. Anticipation with Armie is good. Being able to tell Armie what he wants? God, it's lovely.

Being able to talk to Armie about things other than sex and visuals?  
_____

Timmy breaks down (out of boredom) and starts Googling. "Research," he says. "So we can talk more." 

Why do humans nap so much?  
Why do they have dreams?  
What is the point of having different types of meals at different times of the day?  
What does food taste like? What do eggs taste like?  
What do people like to put on eggs?  
What is ketchup made of?  
Where do tomatoes come from? How do you grow tomatoes? 

He doesn't learn what to have conversations with Armie about, but it only takes Timmy three hours to feel comfortable enough to start planning how to ask Armie if he can start a garden. While he pieces his thoughts together, he finds a site that sells gardening supplies. Starts filling his cart with seeds and pots so he can give Armie a dollar amount. "I could get a job at that coffee shop to pay you back, if you would let--no. I will get a job at the coffee shop if you'll let me. I will earn the money to pay for everything."

He gets a bit too wrapped up in his words and before he knows it, the screen says, "Thank you for your purchase. Happy gardening!"

"Shoot," Timmy hisses, pressing back, back, back, esc, esc, esc. He slams the laptop shut and runs down to the lobby office. 

He explains the situation to the girl behind the desk, asks her to just return the package before Armie gets home. Please. 

She smacks her gum. "Are you an--" she stops herself. Rolls her eyes and softens her voice. "Listen, that's not how the mail works. When you order things, it takes a few days for them to send it to you. Maybe you could call them and--" she sighs. "Maybe you could ask your _friend_ to call them for you."

"He might get mad, though."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't be doing things you're not supposed to do."

A flash that feels like before hits Timmy hard. He tenses, shrinks. "I'm sorry for bothering you." 

"We don't get a lot of you guys around here," she says as Timmy walks out. 

He spends the rest of the afternoon in the bedroom closet, holding one of Armie's sneakers in his hands. He ties and unties the laces. Licks his thumb and rubs some dirt off the toe. He attempts to word an apology but only comes up with, "Please don't return me."

_____

He waits until he hears Armie's keys in the door before he leaves the closet. The more you hide, the worse the punishment. 

His hands sweat as he sits on the edge of the bed. Thinks about the other night when he was sitting here with Armie between his legs. Rubs his sweaty palms on his knees. He's never sweat from being nervous. Always sex. Never nerves. 

It's rude, 

(he knows it's rude, knows the punishment for being a rude little brat. Rubs his hands on his knees again. Can already feel the sting against his cheek, his chest, his back. He's shaking as his mind plays Armie's voice, "You little shit. I shouldn't even bother returning you. Should just throw you in the dumpster, but you'd come back for more, wouldn't you?"

He would. He always did.)

but he can't help himself from blurting, "I'm sorry. Please don't return me," the moment Armie steps into the bedroom.

Silence. Silence is usually bad. Timmy puts his elbows on his knees, his hands in his hair. Tugs. "God, please, Armie, it was a mistake. I'll do whatever you want to pay you back. I'll," he tugs harder. Feels the mattress dip next to him. A hand grip the back of his neck, thumb massaging his skin. 

"Timmy, stop." Another hand weaves through Timmy's hair. Gently rubs his knuckles until he stops tugging at his hair. "Tell me what happened."

The hand on his neck tightens and, because it's Armie, Timmy leans into it. Tells Armie about the dumb garden he doesn't deserve and how he got distracted.

Armie laughs. Not one of those sarcastic, "Do you want my hand or the belt?" laughs, but a genuine, happy laugh. 

"You spent how much? Are you sure you didn't buy an entire farm?" But he's laughing, smoothing his thumb along Timmy's neck. Kissing his cheek. "Don't worry. I'm the idiot that saved my card information. You can have a garden."  
_____

Timmy is still on edge the rest of the week. He says, "Yes, Armie," when asked questions and cleans the house every afternoon. He lets Armie take long naps and stays next to him, silent. He doesn't ask to be fucked. Before, everything could seem okay when it wasn't actually okay. 

Friday (Timmy loves Fridays because when Armie gets home, the pattern takes a break for two days and he gets Armie all to himself), Timmy finishes his magazine and stares at the television for an hour. He goes out to the balcony. It's raining and no one is on the street, so he goes back inside. Looks through the cupboards, but he's already organized those. Same with the bathroom medicine cabinet, the bookshelves, and the coat closet. He walks to the bedroom. Spins. 

"Maybe," he whispers, falls to his knees in front of Armie's bedstand. He pulls the drawer open. Lube, an unopened box of condoms, and a gold ring. He sighs and falls backwards, letting himself rest on the floor. He could nap. Show Armie how good he has gotten at napping.

Instead, he turns his head to the side and sees a disaster zone. "Nice," Timmy grins. He starts pulling out boxes of miscelaneous items, mismatched dirty socks, forgotten books, what may or may not have been a pop-tart at one time, and a photo album. He pulls the album into his lap. 

"Oh," he wrinkles his nose. He flips through the pages, looking at pictures of a beautiful woman putting on makeup. Laughing with other women. Having her dress zipped. Posing with flowers. Small girls. He groans and skips forward. Armie in a suit. Armie smiling. He looks young, unprepared, and this is what "too young" means. 

The last picture is of Armie and the woman ( _Yes, yes, it's Liz, I know, fuck,_ he tells himself), kissing. 

He pushes everything back under the bed. Sits cross-legged. Pokes at the comforter, buries his face into its comfort. Feels the twitch in his spine, his shoulder. Everything goes black, without the painful shock. 

_____

It doesn't feel like a nap, but Timmy's eyes open when the front door slams. Armie's home.


	3. Chapter 3

The laundry is folded, kitchen mopped, and he's done with his magazine. Timmy tries watching _The Office_ , but it's "Dinner Party" and it makes his stomach feel uncomfortable. He'll have to ask Armie why that is. He turns the television off, rubs his knuckles against the couch fabric. Trails his hand up the back of the couch, along the top.

"Shoot," he hisses, palming his semi-hard cock. Rolls his head back. "Timmy, no," he says. Clenches his eyes shut. 

( _Armie won't care,_ Timmy tells himself. _He doesn't even have to know. How would he even find out? What if he finds out? What if he walks in? What if he finally fucks you, then?_ )

He bounces his knee, wills his cock to soften, but the image is there. He can't help it. Sweaty palms press against his knees. Tries to still his legs. 

( _It's his fault, anyways. You're supposed to be fucked. You're made to have cocks in you._ )

"Yeah," Timmy whispers. Stands and quickly pushes Armie's sweatpants off his hips. Pulls the t-shirt off and runs a hand along his belly. He walks to the back of the couch and presses both hands against the fabric, letting it scratch against his skin. Slots his hips against the couch, the wood frame pressing into his hipbones. Bends at the waist. His arms fall limp against the couch cushions, his cheek against the back cushion. 

( _No, shoot. You're not supposed,_ he thinks. Rationalizes, _You're not programmed_ not _to do this, you know._ )

He relaxes, trapping his cock between his body and the couch. Closes his eyes and everything is dark, quiet except the hum of the refrigerator. Spreads his legs, rocks against the couch. Bites his lip when he remembers Armie's voice as they sat on this couch, watching a movie. "I'm not going to hurt you, okay? I won't."

He repeats the mantra in his head, in Armie's voice, over and over as he rocks into the couch, spreads his legs wider. Aches with emptiness. Frantic, 

( _Be good, be a good boy, don't make a mess._ )

he pushes away from the couch, falls onto his back. Wraps one hand around his cock, the other around his throat, not sure which to squeeze harder. Pictures Armie above him, like so many before, but his eyes are soft. Looking for assurance that this is okay, that's it's not too much for Timmy. "Okay," Timmy whines. He sees black, red, Armie as he comes. 

He lets himself calm down for a minute. Only a minute; he has to clean up. By the time Armie walks in the door, Timmy is reading his magazine. Looking up occasionally to laugh at a punchline. 

_____

 

Timmy is cross-legged in the living room. Armie's cell phone is on his left knee, the mail key on his right knee. His body thrums. 

("This," Armie holds up the phone, "Will make a noise and a message will come up when the package is delivered. And this, you take to the mail area to unlock the box with our apartment number on it." He holds up the key. Drops both items in Timmy's cupped hands. "When the phone beeps, you go down, unlock the box, and get a pink slip out. Take it to the office and your package will be there." Timmy had nodded, hopped on his heels a bit. "Please do not lose the mail key. I've already lost three of them and the girls in the office think I'm an idiot.")

He looks back at the balcony. It's raining. If the package had come yesterday, his plants would be getting their first rainfall. 

The phone beeps and Timmy grabs it, holds it to his face. 

_Elizabeth: coffee today?_

Frowns. 

Timmy doens't know the feeling he has towards Liz. It's not hate. He hates the man from before. He knows that feeling all too well. It feels like cramped spaces, heavy hands, and "you little stupid bitch." No, that's not what he's feeling. 

Instead, it feels like Armie's eyes on the morning news when something important is happening on the outside and all Timmy wants is his eye contact. 

He almost drops the phone when it beeps again. 

_38452: Your package has been delivered--_

Timmy stops reading. Grabs the phone, they key, and runs down the stairs to the mail area. Retrieves the pink slip, loops the key ring around his thumb after locking the mail box. 

It's the same girl in the office. She still has too much gum in her mouth. She looks up, rolls her eyes. "You again?" Timmy holds up the pink slip. Grins. "Oh," she gives a smile that isn't really a smile. Timmy gets a lot of those. "You figured out how the United States Postal Service works. Your kind really are taking over, hey? I'll go get it." She snaps her fingers at him, holds her hand out until Timmy gives her the slip. Armie hadn't mentioned this part, but he had been running late for work. 

She pushes away from the desk. Disappears to a back room for a moment before returning with a big box. 

"It's gardening supplies," Timmy says as he takes the box from her. "Armie said I can have a garden."

She returns to her desk, smacks her gum. Stares at Timmy before actually smiling. "I really should get one of you," she laughs. 

"I'm Armie's, though." Timmy shrugs, and she laughs even louder. It isn't mean, so he laughs, too. "Okay, bye."

He's back at the apartment when he realizes he should have said "Thank you," and "Have a good day!" Debates going down to finish the conversation properly. Instead, he places the box on the counter and starts counting down the minutes until Armie should be home.

____

 

Timmy disinfects the lightswitches, door handles, and sinks. Reads an article about how elephants view humans the same way humans view dogs. Starts to wonder how elephants would view him. Reminds himself to ask Armie if there is a zoo nearby. He finally organizes under the bed, working around the picture album. Changes one of the lightbulbs in the kitchen. He gravitates back to the box from time to time, running his fingers along its edges, the tape holding it closed. The sticker that says "Armie Hammer" and their address. 

The apartment smells like a cleaning closet by the time Armie comes home. 

"It came!" Armie says. Drops his bag on the couch. "You didn't open it?"

Timmy didn't know that was an option. He stands next to the box, shakes his head. "I thought I had to wait."

Armie pulls his keys from his pocket. Grabs something dangling from the keychain that looks too familiar. "It's your package," Armie laughs. He flips open the small knife and Timmy jumps, tenses. Backs up, lowers his head. Folds his hands behind his back. "Woah, hey, Timmy," Armie whispers. Timmy looks up. Watches as Armie folds the knife closed, tosses the keys to the couch. 

"Sorry, I--" Timmy starts. His face feels hot. 

Armie uses his nails to pick at the tape until one of the flaps is free while Timmy watches, tangling and untangling his fingers behind his back. Trying to sort out the words to apologize. "Well?" Armie asks. 

Timmy nods. Licks his lips. "I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't hurt me. I apologize for--"

"No, open your box," Armie says. "Show me what you got." He nudges Timmy's shoulder with his palm. 

Timmy looks up. Finds Armie's eyes and holds his gaze. Waits a moment, just to make sure. Then, he smiles with all of his mouth. When he turns to the box, Armie wraps an arm around his waist. Rests his head on Timmy's shoulder. "You don't ever apologize to me for things you can't control, okay?"

Timmy nods. Pulls out seed packets. "This is basil," he holds it up for Armie to see. "I got the mammoth because I know you like pesto, but you can also use it in salads. And it smells stronger."

"You telling me I need to eat more salad?" Armie playfully swats at Timmy's ass, but it makes Timmy push back against his thigh.

Timmy shrugs. "Yes. Oregano, sage, chives," he rattles off, sifting through each packet.

_____

Liz looks better in person and she might as well be breaking news because Armie is all eyes. 

Timmy sits in the living room until he hears, "I miss you."

The closet smells like dryer sheets and Timmy puts an arm around one of Armie's coats. Presses his head against the wall. Traces a hand along the button behind his ear, dares himself to press it. Instead, taps his forehead against the wall. Again, again, again, until he's rocking back and forth, focusing on the dull pain. On Armie's coat. 

"Tim."

A hand on his back and he feels like his spine cracks. His skin twitches.

"Don't return me. Please don't return me. I'll be good. I'll clean up." The hand moves up his spine, onto his shoulder. "I won't talk back. I'll stop with the questions. Please don't return me."

He opens his mouth, but his tongue doesn't move. His body hurts and he can feel an electric hum running through his fingertips. Imagines if he held them to his ears, it would sound like the refrigerator at night. 

Later, Liz is gone. They are too big for the closet, but Armie pulls him closer. "I don't remember a lot," Timmy says. "They reset me, but you always remember a little bit."

That part is true and untrue. They reset him, and he remembers little bits at first. But eventually--now--he remembers everything. 

He tells Armie that he's programmed to serve. To take whatever is given. To want it. "I don't know how to stop wanting to fill that. For you."

Armie's hand pushes up the back of Timmy's shirt. Their hips are slotted together and Timmy wants to rock against Armie, even though they're soft and--for once--Timmy doesn't think he can get hard. Is this the overrides they talk about? But he still wants to rock against Armie. Doesn't. 

( _Stop being such a slut. Jesus Christ._ )

After a long silence, Armie says, "There are things I want," pauses. Kisses the top of Timmy's head. "That I shouldn't want. And you make it really hard to not take them."

Timmy's leg shakes as he wills himself to stay still. His lips rest against Armie's neck. Thinks about the couch, the scratchy fabric. "What if I want you to take those things?"

"You don't," Armie laughs. It's not a happy laugh. His hand moves into Timmy's hair. "I don't."

"What if I want to give you those things?"

Armie's hand tightens in Timmy's hair, his hips rock up, freeze. "Shit. Sorry. Just," Armie loosens his grip. Lowers his hips. "Don't say those things. You're making things very difficult for me."

Timmy almost apologizes before he remembers what Armie said about apologizing for things he can't control.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked if they need to read the other parts and I had previously thought, "Nah, not really." But, now I'm pushing it forward quickly to get to a part that happens after Timmy is "fixed," so things that happened before are being skimmed over.

Timmy is briefly satiated. 

(He fucks Armie. There's a cold feeling the first time that he's not doing it right, but afterwards--after clinging to Armie's waist, coming on his back, pressing his lips, tongue, teeth to Armie's used hole--they spread on opposite sides of the bed and Armie whispers, "You." 

He doesn't say anything else, so Timmy rolls over, snuggles his head against Armie's open arm, rests his nose in his armpit. "Who, me?"

Armie laughs. His chest huffs. "Yeah, you."

The next time, Armie shows him how to use his fingers first and it's even better. Better, watching Armie fall apart before Timmy is even fully hard, before his cock is even a thought. Better, when Armie groans, "You're gonna make me come," and it's an opening for the words Timmy practiced all afternoon. "Such a slut. Such a good little slut." His voice breaks, nervous, but Armie rocks back harder, harder and Timmy doesn't care about being inside him. Could do this all day.)

The sex is beyond anything Timmy knew existed. His garden looks good for a beginner. Armie hangs up on Liz during foreplay. Weeks later, Timmy is bored, rummaging through closets and drawers he has already organized multiple times. He opens Armie's bedside drawer and his wedding ring is gone. Drops to the floor, scans under the bed. The wedding album is gone, too. He thinks about both items in the dumpster behind the apartment every time he is out in his garden.

Timmy is very much (however briefly) satiated. 

_____

Timmy starts reading his magazines in the lobby. He practices conversations with people as they come in and out. The office girl with the gum comes to talk to him on her break. She usually has a gossip magazine and they huddle together, going over who is dating whom, what so and so wore. The mail man shouts, "It's Timmy Tim!" when he sees Timmy and either ruffles his hair, gives him a high five, or points and winks. Even the nightgown lady stops by to talk. She knits Timmy a pair of grey knee socks. 

(Timmy put them on when he got back to their apartment. Armie was still at work, so he didn't think anything of taking his pants off, pulled the socks on, and slid around the hardwood floors for a while in just his t-shirt and the socks. He forgot them until Armie _did_ come home and Timmy was on the balcony, leaning over the railing to watch people. Counting dogs. 

"Hey," Timmy called absently. "How was work?" Whispered, "Seventeen, eighteen," when he saw a couple walking two border collies. 

"You," Armie's voice shook. "Bedroom, now.")

Armie notices. They're going to the garden and Armie holds the door open for the newlywed couple from the first floor. The husband pays Timmy's shoulder; his wife pulls Timmy into a hug, kisses his cheek. "You, me, _The Price is Right_ tomorrow, yeah?"

"Wouldn't miss it!" Timmy says. Air kisses next to her cheek. 

The door closes and Armie scoffs. "Is there a reason all of _my_ my neighbors like you more than they like me?"

Timmy strides to the garden. Grins over his shoulder. "Talking to people once in a while might help your efforts, Mr. Hammer."

_____

Timmy starts spending most of his time on the balcony. His magazine collection is depleted, the apartment is spotless. He does laundry so fast that it doesn't make sense to use a machine for the tiny loads. He washes Armie's shirts and briefs by hand. Hangs them to dry on the balcony. If he spends a little extra time on the briefs, that's for no one but him to know. 

One morning, he gets up without Armie and sits on the balcony. The sun is just peaking above the buildings and his body gets warmer, and warmer. He goes back and forth, checking on Armie. This isn't something he has done before and he doesn't want Armie to be upset. (Not angry. Upset. Like when Timmy washed a signed baseball ["You didn't know," Armie sighed. "It's okay." But it clearly wasn't okay.])

He's watching birds chase one another when the sliding door opens and the smell of coffee, Armie, sweat, is everywhere. Armie sits cross legged next to him. "Morning."

Timmy feels happy. Leans his head on Armie's shoulder. 

Some long afternoons, Timmy makes coffee and brings it to the balcony so it smells like happiness while he waits for Armie.  
_____

It happens on the stairs. Timmy is going to meet the office girl for her lunch break, and the next thing he remembers is a woman from the second floor kneeling in front of him on the landing. His ass hurts from the hardwood and his neck aches from leaning against the wall. "Hey," she speaks softly when his eyes flutter open. "Are you okay?"

He feels cold, like a restart. His fingers tingle. "Yeah."

"Do you need me to call your--" her voice trails off. He notices her briefcase and office clothes. Armie is probably almost home. 

Timmy shakes his head. Stands. "No, I." Licks his lips. Runs a hand through his hair. "I just have to go home. I'm okay." He doesn't look back until he's closing the apartment door behind him. 

When Armie comes home, he says he spent the day reading about cross pollination. 

____

He is satiated until Armie comes without Timmy touching his cock. Until Armie lies to him in the shower, says, "I just like when you fuck me."

(Okay, it's a white lie. Timmy knows Armie likes--loves--it, but it's not why he won't fuck Timmy. He can't read Armie's mind [though, Timmy remembers when that rumor was going around and it was pretty fun to watch the man from before squirm every time he made eye contact with Timmy], but he can tell when someone is lying.)

Timmy doesn't like that Armie is lying. After he goes to work, Timmy stews on the couch. Flips aimlessly through a magazine. Watches a few episodes of _The Office_ , but doesn't laugh. He doesn't even chuckle when Meredith exposes herself on "Casual Friday." Eventually, he goes to the balcony. Sits cross-legged. Picks a sprig of rosemary and smells it. He's let himself get too comfortable; what else has Armie lied about? 

He's making a mental list when a hummingbird stops at their neighbor's balcony. They both seem to freeze, but when Timmy squints, he can see the bird's wings. He blinks quickly, trying to blink as fast as they flap and then--

____

There's a haze. The sidewalk, the coffee shop. Armie gets a sandwich. Aches in his neck. His eyes won't focus. He blinks, blinks, blinks. Falls in step with Armie. 

The next morning, Armie cries when he fucks Timmy. Timmy doesn't say anything--would never say anything--just holds him. Wants Armie deeper, more. Harder. Wants to be held down, appreciated, used. Kisses Armie's hair, his neck, his ear. Shifts so he can wrap his legs higher on Armie's body, force Armie's cock in further. When Armie comes, it's like a switch is flipped and Timmy can see straight. His neck feels loose. 

____

Armie takes Timmy shopping. "You look ridiculous in my clothes," Armie says. 

"I like your clothes," Timmy fingers a green shirt on a hanger. 

Armie grabs his chin, angles Timmy's face towards his. Ghosts his hips against Timmy's. "And you look hot in my clothes, but I want to see your ass every now and then. 

Timmy pokes his ribs. Licks his upper lip and winks. "You can see my ass whenever you want."

"The problem with you is that you know you're a tease."

Timmy shrugs. "I can stop, if you want." He pulls away and grabs the green shirt. Holds it against his chest. He's never had clothes of his own (most the time, he wasn't allowed to wear more than underwear), and he's trying to seem nonchalant. That's a word he learned the other day when he googled, "How to look calm when you are falling apart." 

"Get it in blue, too," Armie says. He's moved over to jeans and is picking out a pair in black. Another in dark blue. "Oh, you need underwear. Boxers? Briefs? Boxer briefs?"

"Oh, you know," Timmy says _nonchalantly_ as he grabs the same shirt in blue. "Commando."

There's a cough from a few feet away; both look up to see a sales attendant shaking his head.  
____

"No, don't worry," Armie says, running this thumb along the corner of his credit card. He smartened up and deleted the information from the laptop. "Anything made of paper is a dying industry, so subscriptions are cheap. Pick whatever you want."

Unsure, Timmy stares at him. He's not lying. He turns back to the laptop and starts clicking. 

Getting the mail becomes the highlight of Timmy's morning. The first time, he's waiting for the mailman, who sees the key and pats Timmy's shoulder. "Man of the house now, yeah?"  
_____

Timmy googles it. Apparently, this is bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bartbarthelme on tumblr.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a new chapter! It was pointed out that EONS AGO I posted this to the wrong part.

He carries the package upstairs, brings it inside and drops it. He kicks the side of it and bites his lip.

Timmy's fingers hurt. Timmy's fingers ache with anger and he has to Google what anger is. What jealousy feels like. Box Timmy comes and Timmy licks his lips, spends some time on the balcony.

Timmy goes to the kitchen and paces.

____

He knew this was going to happen.

____

Armie comes home and his body is slick with sweat. Armie comes home and Timmy's palms ache from his fingernails pressing into his flesh. Armie comes home and Timmy knows better but he says, 'You're just like him," and he doesn't mean it because Armie is not. But Timmy remembers being used, he remembers his face being pressed into the carpet and his ass being filled with a stranger's cock.

"I'm not," Armie says and it seems like an actual earthquake.

Timmy goes the the bedroom. He knows better, but he slams the door. Goes to the closet and holds Armie's shirt. Breathes in and out. Presses his forehead against the wall.

___

Later, Timmy has been an asshole. He's glad he was and in the morning, he organizes magazines.

____

Timmy knows he should be in trouble. He calls Armie "Sir" and he knows androids have been returned for less than this, but Armie bought that box and Armie knew how that would hurt. Armie knows and Timmy is quiet for days.

He is polite.

His chest hurts and he has to Google what that means.

Then, Armie goes to work and Timmy opens the closet. He thumbs the hole that he kicked in the box and he pressed his fingers against the cellophane front.

"Shoot," he whispers and tugs the box out into the open. He stands above it, looks at himself through the plastic. Wonders if this is how Armie sees him.

He rips the box open and struggles to drag his body to the bedroom. Presses the button behind the air and strokes his hair. "Hey," he says when his eyes open. Runs his thumb along the new boy's temple. "It's okay, you're okay," he promises.


End file.
